Even in a pluralist age, some narratives are stronger than others, or as Orwell put it in “Animal Farm,” some animals more equal. There are no women on the list or artists of color. Do I have to say it’s not my list, which doesn’t matter, even to me? These are the artists whose version of reality creates the illusion of consensus. Art would be a arid place if an artificial consensus were the beginning and end of the story.

Storr was in town to talk about Kim Jones, an artists’ artist whose exhibit at the Henry closes Jan. 27. From Jones, little flows except himself. There will not be a school of Jones or a generation of students struggling to deal with his example without being swept up by its undertow.

Yes to feces, no to diamonds? Not exactly. It’s yes to the compelling outsider (Jones) and no to the showboating center of attention (Hirst). It’s yes to the essential artists not covered in the Duchamp to Hirst trajectory.

If anyone can say no to Hirst and make the rejection matter, it’s Storr, whose brilliance knows few bounds. No to Hirst is a leaky boat. Nobody, even Storr, can keep it afloat. Hirst inhabits whatever experience he considers. Think of death and art, and his shark pops up. Think of money and art, and his skull leers back at you.

Personally, I don’t know why somebody needs to say no to stars in order to say yes to mud. Jones is a bird with a broken wing who hops around the edge of things, a bird compared to Hirst’s stealth bomber. Jones is great not because Hirst is a fake, but because Jones is great.

Review of Jones’ at the Henry here. Excellent list of excrement-in-art projects here.